by Josh Lanyon
Chapter Seven
He really just did not learn when it came to Linley.
Linley hesitated for an excruciating moment. “That’s a very tempting offer,” he said finally, courteously. “But I don’t think it would be a very good idea.”
Miles’s heart plummeted from the highest hopeful peak and crashed all the way down, hitting rocks and cacti as it went until it landed in bits at the bottom of a gully.
What had he expected, after all? A couple of kind words didn’t mean Linley was ready to jump in the sack with him.
God.
He summoned a smile and a shrug. “Oh, well. You don’t know till you ask.”
Linley looked…taken aback. That was the only way to describe it. One moment he was looking all unreadable and distant, and the next he looked almost…Wait. What?
Funny in other circumstances. Kind of. Surely, he wasn’t expecting to be begged? No, it was something else. What?
Did it matter?
No. Not really. The answer was still the same. Thanks but no thanks.
Linley recovered, said briskly, “I’ll give you a lift.”
Probably not, judging by past events.
But Miles said, “That would be great. Thank you.”
***
The drive to Chateau Versailles was very short and very silent.
The adrenaline that had energized Miles ever since waking to Linley’s shouts of alarm drained away, and he just wanted the peace and quiet of his hotel room. He wanted to go to bed and forget all about the huge, empty house on Braeside, and Erwan Dube’s dead, staring eyes, and getting turned down unequivocally by Linley for the second goddamned time in his life.
At last Linley’s Jaguar XJ glided to a stop in front of the hotel’s entrance.
Miles reached for the door handle, saying, “Thanks again. I’ll let you know what M. Thibault says about getting into the house to grab your things.”
Linley said, “You’re…a very nice guy, Miles.”
Miles groaned. “Oh my God. The kiss of death.” He laughed.
“I’m sorry?” Linley had that taken-aback look again.
Miles shook his head. He was still laughing—sort of. It was kind of funny. One day it would be funny. “Nothing. Good night, Lin.”
“Wait,” Linley said quickly.
Miles waited.
Linley drew a breath—as though taking a risk?—and said, “Miles, would you like to have dinner tomorrow? Rather, this evening?”
Yes. Oh yes. And no. Hell no.
Miles said, “Um…the thing is, I’m not sure what I’ll be doing later…”
“Having dinner at some point. Yes?”
“Yes. But…”
Linley was suddenly smooth, almost teasing, back on solid ground. “You let Oliver buy you lunch. It’s only fair to let me buy you dinner.”
What did fairness have to do with it?
But despite everything, he did want to have dinner with Linley. It might be one of the last times he saw him, so why not? Besides, if he said no, it would look like his ego couldn’t take being turned down.
“Why not,” Miles said.
“I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Miles got out of the car and went up the steps, past the bronze lions—so much smaller and tamer-looking than the Braeside lions—and under the orange awning. Linley waited, Jaguar purring smugly in the frosty night, until Miles pushed through the ornate glass and bronze doors.
Miles heard the Jaguar accelerate away from the curb. He did not look back.
***
Sunday was a great day, and that wasn’t just Miles trying to stay optimistic.
He woke early, enjoyed the hotel’s relatively lavish continental breakfast buffet, and, despite the cold and drizzly weather, sauntered out to spend the day sightseeing and shopping.
He bought a new and warmer coat—okay, a parka—on sale at The Bay, and then splurged and purchased a pearl-gray, slim-fit dress shirt for dinner.
He stocked up on paints and brushes at Avenue des Arts in Westmount and then treated himself to obscenely delicious butternut-squash soup for lunch at a tiny little place called Café Bazin.
He returned to his hotel and dropped off his purchases, checked to make sure there were no messages from the police or anyone else—warning himself not to be too disappointed if Linley canceled—and then spent a few hours wandering the cobbled Saint-Paul Street, enjoying a glimpse of the last few calèches—horse-drawn carriages—and admiring the beautiful architecture of old buildings and secret alleyways. He passed a multitude of quirky galleries, quaint gift and overstocked souvenir shops, promising himself there would be plenty of time to explore all these and more.
He spent time in a little side park sketching. No question, this city was going to be good for his art. No question, it was going to be less good for his waistline. He sampled bagels, maple-flavored coffee, maple ice cream, and spruce beer.
A couple of times he got lost wandering down side streets, but even that was sort of fun. It was on one of those small side streets that he came across the pawn shop.
An old-school easel in the corner of the crowded front window first caught his attention. The oak tripod was about five feet tall with two pegs to support the canvas. It probably weighed a ton compared to Miles’s light and flexible aluminum tripod at home. On the other hand, the wood, polished from years of use and handling, had a kind of beauty his easel did not. It looked very well made. It looked like it had helped produce good art.
Was there a demand for such items? How much did an old wooden easel go for nowadays?
His gaze idly traveled—and then sharpened as he noticed a familiar-looking pair of blue and white porcelain chinoiserie ginger jars.
That was odd. They looked almost exactly like the pair that had once sat atop the fireplace mantel in the foyer at Braeside.
He peered more closely through the dingy glass window.
Like the Braeside jars, these were about fourteen inches tall and featured Chinese phoenixes. Both jars had their lids and appeared to be in good shape.
Of course, there was no shortage of ginger jars, and it was over a decade since he’d seen the Braeside jars. He could easily be mistaken. He probably was mistaken. But he couldn’t help wondering what had happened to those ginger jars. Had they been sold? Moved to a different part of the house? Or had Erwan Dube perhaps cashed them in?
Miles took a step back to read the unlit neon sign across the front of the small brick shop.
Monsieur Comptant.
What was “comptant”? Cash? Money? Compensation?
Well, it wouldn’t hurt to ask about the jars’ provenance. Just to satisfy his own curiosity. He went to the front door, only then noticing that the sign hanging in the window read Fermé.
That word he did know. CLOSED.
***
“I don’t remember,” Linley said when Miles asked him about the ginger jars later that evening.
They were dining at Le Fantôme on William Street in the heart of Griffintown’s Montreal Art Centre. It was the kind of place Miles loved. Or would have loved if there was anything like it in Los Angeles.
The restaurant was small and crowded—a single narrow room of white walls, concrete floor, and dark, distressed, none-too-comfortable wooden furniture, softly lit by candlelight. A series of gorgeous collages in swirls of earthy golds, browns, and reds decorated the walls. Despite the piped-in music and volume of voices, the atmosphere was hushed and surprisingly intimate.
Linley had asked permission to order for Miles, which Miles found amusing but sort of charmingly old-world, so they were dining off the very pricy but delectable eight-course tasting menu and drinking some of the best wine Miles had had in his life.
“You don’t remember the last time you saw them?”
“No.”
“Is it possible Capucine might have sold them?”
“Of course. She wouldn’t pawn them, however.” Linley’s light gaze was curious. “Wh
at is it you’re thinking? Dube stole the jars and pawned them?”
“It’s possible, right?”
“I suppose so. Thibault should give you a list of the house’s contents tomorrow.” His smile was wry. “Trying to play match-up should keep you busy for the rest of your stay.”
Every time Miles looked directly at Linley, their gazes seemed to tangle, and his face warmed.
All the while he had dressed for dinner, Miles had warned himself not to view this meal as anything but a casual and kindly gesture on Linley’s part, like Oliver taking him to lunch the day before. But this sensible attitude melted away every time he caught that warm gleam in Linley’s eyes.
With anyone else… But Linley was not anyone else, and he had unequivocally turned Miles down the night before.
So…?
Even the way Linley had greeted him at the hotel, kissing him lightly on both cheeks, looking Miles up and down with flattering appreciation and complimenting Miles’s new shirt, “That color suits you. Your eyes are the same shade.”
No, Miles’s eyes were not pearl-gray. They were gray-blue. Furthermore, he needed a haircut and new blades for his razor. But he appreciated a compliment as much as the next guy.
Linley wore what appeared to be a black cashmere turtleneck and ass-hugging indigo jeans. He looked suave and cosmopolitan, which of course he was, and Miles would not have been surprised if people wondered what on earth they were doing together.
In fact, every so often their meal was interrupted as someone stopped by their table to speak to Linley, and each time Linley courteously introduced Miles as a very old friend visiting from the States. This was greeted with a variety of wise looks or knowing smiles.
The jaunty notes of a song playing in the background caught Miles’s attention. “There’s that song again.”
“What song?” Linley listened. Smiled. “Oh.” He quoted, “‘That’s the way of love, and there’s nothing one can do about it.’ Are you a romantic, Miles?”
“I don’t know. I do like the song.”
“Try this.” Linley held out his fork, and Miles, heart beating so hard he thought he’d suffocate, delicately nibbled a bite of…what the hell was it?
“Lobster grilled over charcoal, paired with a crémant d’Alsace,” Linley supplied.
Miles chewed, swallowed, said faintly, “Wow.”
It was almost orgasmically good.
Linley smiled faintly, reached across, and brushed his thumb against the corner of Miles’s mouth. Miles went rigid because there was no way that gesture was anything but— His thoughts flatlined as Linley licked the bit of crémant d’Alsace off his thumb.
Whatever Linley read in Miles’s face made him smile. “Enjoying yourself?”
“The condemned man ate a hearty meal,” Miles said.
Linley laughed, but said, “I’m not sure I get the joke.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Why did Capucine leave me the house? And please don’t say presumably she wanted you to have it.”
Linley’s expressive brows shot up. “Presumably she did.”
“Yes, but why? We weren’t that close. I don’t feel like I ever really knew her. And”—this one still hurt because it had hurt his mother—“she never came to see Mom once she was diagnosed.”
Linley’s gaze flickered and fell. He said after a moment, “No. My mother was not good at…reality.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Just that Alex getting sick and dying did not fit Mother’s script. Only happy endings allowed in that production.”
Miles had no response. He wasn’t even sure he knew what Linley meant.
“Afterward, when it was too late, she felt terrible. That was Mother.” Linley’s mouth curved, but there wasn’t much humor there. “So she decided to play fairy godmother. She always preferred grand gestures to the day-to-day grind.”
That was a pretty cold-blooded assessment, although frankly, it confirmed Miles’s impression.
“Don’t misunderstand,” Linley said. “I loved her. She was my mother. But I was never under any illusions regarding her.” He added sardonically, “Also, bequeathing the house to you saved her from having to decide what would go to Oliver and what would go to me. I’m not sure if her fear was that we would fall out over divvying up her treasures, or we wouldn’t care at all and would simply put the house and all its contents on the market. Either way, I’m sure she viewed it as a salutary lesson for us.”
“Are you angry about the house?”
Linley seemed to consider. “At first, perhaps. Oliver more so than me. But the house was hers. It was her right to do as she wished.”
“You’ve both been amazingly gracious about everything.”
There was a hint of mockery in Linley’s smile. “I didn’t plan to be. But there’s something about you, Miles—”
“Speak of the devil!”
Miles glanced up and found Oliver and a tall, elegant young woman with long caramel-colored hair standing beside their table.
“Hey,” Miles said in greeting and rose.
Linley groaned, but maybe that was in fun because the girl laughed. Linley stood, kissed her on both cheeks, and said, “Can’t you do any better than this, Juliette?”
“I could ask Miles the same,” Oliver said.
Introductions were made. The girl was Juliette Simard. Oliver introduced her as his girlfriend, and Juliette drew back and gave him a seriously? look.
Oliver appeared flustered. “Actually, we just got engaged. We’re celebrating.”
Juliette held up her bare left hand. “The truth is, I asked him. And he was kind enough to consent. Under duress.” She and Linley seemed to find that very funny. Oliver less so.
Miles said, “Congratulations. Join us for a drink.”
“Under no circumstances,” Linley said.
“In that case, gladly.” Oliver pulled out the chair next to Linley for Juliette. He sat down beside Miles.
Linley sighed heavily and raised his hand for the waitress. While he was ordering champagne, Oliver said quietly to Miles, “If you’re still agreeable, I would like to go through Mother’s jewelry.”
“Sure. Of course.”
They chatted about people and events Miles did not know. Juliette wrinkled her nose. “I saw Giles last week. He’s got a show coming up at Galerie NuEdge.”
Linley made a disinterested noise and finished his wine. He smiled at Miles.
Miles smiled back automatically.
The champagne came, a toast was made to Oliver and Juliette’s future happiness, and the talk moved to the shocking events of the evening before.
“How terrible for you,” Juliette said to Miles. “I hope it hasn’t put you off us.”
“Not at all.”
Oliver said, “I always knew Dube would come to a bad end. He’s probably been pilfering things from the house since he got out of prison.”
That reminded Miles of the chinoiserie ginger jars. He asked Oliver if he remembered the last time he’d seen them.
Oliver admitted he couldn’t recall. He said to Linley, “Miles has a mind like a museum curator. I think he remembers every painting, every objet d’art at Braeside. Mother would be thrilled.”
Linley smiled, but had seemed distracted since Juliette mentioned Giles.
They finished the champagne, Oliver and Juliette moved to their own table, and Linley asked for and paid the bill.
The silence on the drive back to Chateau Versailles was smoothed over by classical music eddying from the state-of-the-art stereo system.
“I liked Juliette,” Miles said finally.
“Juliette is adorable,” Linley said. “Oliver better not fuck that up again.”
His tone was a little cool, his expression distant. Miles didn’t breach the silence again until they reached the hotel.
“Well, thank you for a really terrific evening,” he began as Linley pulled up in front of the
bellman.
Linley, already starting to climb out of the car, looked startled. “You’re not going to ask me up?”
Confused, doubtful, Miles said, “Would I get a different answer than last night?”
Linley smiled, said lightly, “You won’t know until you ask.”
It seemed a good time for honesty. Miles said, “Yeah, but it does hurt getting turned down. And I’d prefer not to make a fool of myself.”
Linley’s smile faded. He said gently, “You’re not a fool, Miles. I’m not going to turn you down.”
Chapter Eight
When Miles stepped out of the bathroom, Linley was sitting on the foot of the king-size bed, slowly flipping through Miles’s sketch pad. He glanced at the quick portrait of an old woman playing a squeeze-box, a child feeding pigeons, soft pencil drawings of fountain details, and a geometric jumble of road signs and lights.
Miles resisted the temptation to snatch it away and say, Don’t look!
He knew his work was good. Not up to Linley’s standards, but so what? He wasn’t looking for Linley’s approval. Not in that arena. Not in any arena, really. Sure, they had different backgrounds, different life experiences, but they were equals now. Equals in any way that counted.
So he said, “Would you like something from the minibar?”
Linley glanced up, set Miles’s sketch pad aside, and came to join him. He studied the contents of the minibar. “I’ll have a water, thank you.”
Miles took out two bottles of Canada Geese sparkling water.
Maybe it was a strategic error, but he preferred to know exactly where things stood. “Oliver said you recently broke up with your partner.”
Linley screwed off the bottle cap. He made an unamused sound. “Oliver should mind his own business.”
“I asked him.”
Linley’s blue eyes flashed to Miles. “Did you?”
“Yes. I asked if you were married or anything. I had a horrible crush on you when I was a kid.”
“On me?” Linley looked astonished. Then, “Why horrible?”
Miles shrugged. “Crushes are always horrible. Because they’re unreturned.”
After a moment, Linley said, “You’re a very surprising person, Miles.”